Fifteen-year-old Leigh Baxton is terrified her mom will
comeback from the dead--just like the prom queen did.
Afraid the local cemetery might be something out of a Stephen
King book, she buries some of her mom’s heavy things in her grave to keep her
there. When the strange, but kind of beautiful, caretaker warns her not to give
gifts to the dead, Leigh jacks up her punk music to drown him out, and keeps
She should have listened to him.
Two resurrected sorceresses discover what Leigh has done.
Apparently giving gifts to the dead is an offer to join the sorceresses inside
the prom queen’s magical, and now empty, grave. Which means death,
resurrection, and enough dead sorceress power to break open the prison inside
the earth. But Leigh isn’t the only one who has gifts for the dead. Her sister
does, too, and the sorceresses find out. Now Leigh must make a choice: lose
another loved one or give the ultimate gift to the dead--herself.
THE GRAVE WINNER is a young adult dark fantasy complete at 64,000
My short story “Alpha Female Office Wolf” was published in the
May 2011 issue of Work Literary Magazine.
Two of my horror short stories will be published in future issues of Weirdyear and The Red Asylum.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
THE GRAVE WINNER
Dad, Darby, and I stood rooted in place long after Mom’s
funeral. The weight in my chest threatened to suffocate me if I looked at the
lid of her gleaming casket any longer. Instead, I focused on the black birds
cutting across the sky in a sharp V formation. They pressed on until the clouds
took them from me.
A different flutter in the corner of my eye pulled me back
to earth. The movement took a few seconds to penetrate my numb brain. It was a
girl. She crept in and out of the crumbling headstones, her body thick with mud
and grime. Torn scraps of what looked like a prom dress hung from her scrawny
frame. Her mouth sagged open like she was about to scream.
A shudder raced across my shoulder blades. I shook my head,
afraid I might be dreaming. Darby stood next to me, and I reached out to touch
her. She was real. Her ache was real. I felt it in the quiver of her bony body.
But beyond her and the heaviness pinching my lungs, I couldn’t be sure of
Inky black footprints tracked behind the dangling hem of the
girl’s dress like a trail of burnt breadcrumbs. She stopped beside a tree and
leaned her back against it. More darkness pooled at her feet and crept up the
trunk behind her.
Sweat trickled down the back of my dress. What was
this girl doing? And what was all the black stuff dripping underneath her?